D'Ri and I

by Irving Bacheller

  XIX

  D'ri and I left the chateau that afternoon, putting up in the redtavern at Morristown about dusk.

  My companion rode away proudly, the medal dangling at his waistcoatlapel.

  "Jerushy Jane!" said he, presently, as he pulled rein. "Ain'ta-goin' t' hev thet floppin' there so--meks me feel luk a bird.Don't seem nohow nat'ral. Wha' d' ye s'pose he gin me thet airthing fer?"

  He was putting it away carefully in his wallet.

  "As a token of respect for your bravery," said I.

  His laughter roared in the still woods, making my horse lift andsnort a little. It was never an easy job to break any horse toD'ri's laughter.

  "It's _reedic'lous_," said he, thoughtfully, in a moment.

  "Why?"

  "'Cause fer the reason why they don't no man deserve nuthin' ferdoin' what he 'd orter," he answered, with a serious and determinedlook.

  "You did well," said I, "and deserve anything you can get."

  "Done my damdest!" said he. "But I did n't do nuthin' but gitlicked. Got shot an' tore an' slammed all over thet air deck, an'could n't do no harm t' nobody. Jes luk a boss tied 'n the stall,an' a lot o' men whalin' 'im, an' a lot more tryin' t' scare 'im t'death."

  "Wha' d' ye s'pose thet air thing's made uv?" he inquired after alittle silence.

  "Silver," said I.

  "Pure silver?"

  "Undoubtedly," was my answer.

  "Judas Priest!" said he, taking out his wallet again, to look atthe trophy. "Thet air mus' be wuth suthin'."

  "More than a year's salary," said I.

  He looked up at me with a sharp whistle of surprise.

  "Ain' no great hand fer sech flummydiddles," said he, as he put themedal away.

  "It's a badge of honor," said I. "It shows you 're a brave man."

  "Got 'nough on 'em," said D'ri. "This 'ere rip 'n the forehead's'bout all the badge I need."

  "It's from the emperor--the great Napoleon," I said. "It's a markof his pleasure."

  "Wall, by Judas Priest!" said D'ri, "I would n't jump over a stumpover a stun wall t' please no emp'ror, an' I would n't cut off myleetle finger fer a hull bushel basket o' them air. I hain'ta-fightin' fer no honor."

  "What then?" said I.

  His face turned very sober. He pursed his lips, and spat acrossthe ditch; then he gave his mouth a wipe, and glanced thoughtfullyat the sky.

  "Fer liberty," said he, with decision. "Same thing my father diedfer."

  Not to this day have I forgotten it, the answer of old D'ri, or thelook of him as he spoke. I was only a reckless youth fighting forthe love of peril and adventure, and with too little thought of thehigh purposes of my country. The causes of the war were familiarto me; that proclamation of Mr. Madison had been discussed freelyin our home, and I had felt some share in the indignation of D'riand my father. This feeling had not been allayed by the bloodyscenes in which I had had a part. Now I began to feel the greatpassion of the people, and was put to shame for a moment.

  "Liberty--that is a grand thing to fight for," said I, after abrief pause.

  "Swap my blood any time fer thet air," said D'ri. "I can fightsassy, but not fer no king but God A'mighty. Don't pay t' git alltore up less it's fer suthin' purty middlin' vallyble. My lifeain't wuth much, but, ye see, I hain't nuthin' else."

  We rode awhile in sober thought, hearing only a sough of the windabove and the rustling hoof-beat of our horses in the rich harvestof the autumn woods. We were walking slowly over a stretch of baremoss when, at a sharp turn, we came suddenly in sight of a hugebear that sat facing us. I drew my pistol as we pulled rein,firing quickly. The bear ran away into the brush as I firedanother shot.

  "He 's hit," said D'ri, leaping off and bidding me hold the bit.Then, with a long stride, he ran after the fleeing bear. I hadbeen waiting near half an hour when D'ri came back slowly, with adownhearted look.

  "'Tain' no use," said he. "Can't never git thet bear. He's got aflesh-wound high up in his hin' quarters, an' he's travellin' fast."

  He took a fresh chew of tobacco and mounted his horse.

  "Terrible pity!" he exclaimed, shaking his head with some trace oflingering sorrow. "Ray," said he, soberly, after a little silence,"when ye see a bear lookin' your way, ef ye want 'im, alwus shuteat the end thet's _toward_ ye."

  There was no better bear-hunter in the north woods than D'ri, andto lose a bear was, for him, no light affliction.

  "Can't never break a bear's neck by shutin' 'im in the hin'quarters," he remarked.

  I made no answer.

  "Might jest es well spit 'n 'is face," he added presently; "jesteggzac'ly."

  This apt and forceful advice calmed a lingering sense of duty, andhe rode on awhile in silence. The woods were glooming in theearly dusk when he spoke again. Something revived his contempt ofmy education. He had been trailing after me, and suddenly I felthis knee.

  "Tell ye this, Ray," said he, in a kindly tone. "Ef ye wan' t' gita bear, got t' mux 'im up a leetle for'ard--right up 'n theneighborhood uv 'is fo'c's'le. Don't dew no good t' shute 'ishams. Might es well try t' choke 'im t' death by pinchin' 'istail."

  We were out in the open. Roofs and smoking chimneys weresilhouetted on the sky, and, halfway up a hill, we could see thecandle-lights of the red tavern. There, in the bar, before blazinglogs in a great fireplace, for the evening had come chilly, a tablewas laid for us, and we sat down with hearty happiness to tankardsof old ale and a smoking haunch. I have never drunk or eaten witha better relish. There were half a dozen or so sitting about thebar, and all ears were for news of the army and all hands for ourhelp. If we asked for more potatoes or ale, half of them rose toproclaim it. Between pipes of Virginia tobacco, and old sledge,and songs of love and daring, we had a memorable night. When wewent to our room, near twelve o'clock, I told D'ri of our dearfriends, who, all day, had been much in my thought.

  "Wus the letter writ by her?" he inquired.

  "Not a doubt of it."

  "Then it's all right," said he. "A likely pair o' gals themair--no mistake."

  "But I think they made me miss the bear," I answered.

  "Ray," said D'ri, soberly, "when yer shutin' a bear, ef ye want'im, don't never think o' nuthin' but the bear." Then, after amoment's pause, he added: "Won't never hev no luck killin' a bearef ye don' quit dwellin' so on them air gals."

  I thanked him, with a smile, and asked if he knew Eagle Island.

  "Be'n all over it half a dozen times," said he. "'T ain' no more'n twenty rod from the Yankee shore, thet air island ain't. Wec'u'd paddle there in a day from our cove."

  And that was the way we planned to go,--by canoe from ourlanding,--and wait for the hour at Paleyville, a Yankee villageopposite the island. We would hire a team there, and convey theparty by wagon to Leraysville.

  We were off at daybreak, and going over the hills at a livelygallop. Crossing to Caraway Pike, in the Cedar Meadows, an hourlater, we stampeded a lot of moose. One of them, a great bull, ranahead of us, roaring with fright, his antlers rattling upon bushand bough, his black bell hanging to the fern-tops.

  "Don' never wan't' hev no argyment with one o' them air chaps 'lessye know purty nigh how 't's comin' out," said D'ri. "Alwus want agun es well es a purty middlin' ca-a-areful aim on your side. Thenye 're apt t' need a tree, tew, 'fore ye git through with it."After a moment's pause he added: "Got t' be a joemightyful stouttree, er he 'll shake ye out uv it luk a ripe apple."

  "They always have the negative side of the question," I said."Don't believe they 'd ever chase a man if he 'd let 'em alone."

  "Yis, siree, they would," was D'ri's answer. "I 've hed 'em comeright efter me 'fore ever I c'u'd lift a gun. Ye see, they're jestes cur'us 'bout a man es a man is 'bout them. Ef they can't smell'im, they 're terrible cur'us. Jes' wan' t' see what 's inside uv'im an' what kind uv a smellin' critter he is. Dunno es they wan't' dew 'im any pertic'lar harm. Jes' wan' t' mux 'im over aleetle; but they dew it _awful careless_, an'
he ain't never fit t'be seen no more."

  He snickered faintly as he spoke.

  "An' they don't nobody see much uv 'im efter thet, nuther," headded, with a smile.

  "I 'member once a big bull tried t' find out the kind o' works Ihed in me. 'T wa'n' no moose--jest a common ord'narythree-year-ol' bull."

  "Hurt you?" I queried.

  "No; 't hurt 'im." said he, soberly. "Sp'ilt 'im, es ye might say.Could n't never bear the sight uv a man efter thet. Seem so he didn't think he wus fit t' be seen. Nobody c'u'd ever git 'n a mildo' th' poor cuss. Hed t' be shot."

  "What happened?"

  "Hed a stout club 'n my hand," said he. "Got holt uv 'is tail, an'begun a-whalin' uv 'im. Run 'im down a steep hill, an' passin' atree, I tuk one side an' he t' other. We parted there fer the las'time."

  He looked off at the sky a moment.

  Then came his inevitable addendum, which was: "I hed a dam sightmore tail 'an he did, thet 's sartin."

  About ten o'clock we came in sight of our old home. Then wehurried our horses, and came up to the door with a rush. Astranger met us there.

  "Are you Captain Bell?" said he, as I got off my horse.

  I nodded.

  "I am one of your father's tenants," he went on. "Ride over theridge yonder about half a mile, and you will see his house." Ilooked at D'ri and he at me. He had grown pale suddenly, and Ifelt my own surprise turning into alarm.

  "Are they well?" I queried.

  "Very well, and looking for you," said he, smiling.

  We were up in our saddles, dashing out of the yard in a jiffy.Beyond the ridge a wide mile of smooth country sloped to the rivermargin. Just off the road a great house lay long and low in fairacres. Its gables were red-roofed, its walls of graystone halfhidden by lofty hedges of cedar. We stopped our horses, lookingoff to the distant woods on each side of us.

  "Can't be," said D'ri, soberly, his eyes squinting in the sunlight.

  "Wonder where they live," I remarked.

  "All looks mighty cur'us," said he. "'Tain' no way nat'ral."

  "Let's go in there and ask," I suggested.

  We turned in at the big gate and rode silently over a driveway ofsmooth gravel to the door. In a moment I heard my father's heartyhello, and then my mother came out in a better gown than ever I hadseen her wear. I was out of the saddle and she in my arms before aword was spoken. My father, hardy old Yankee, scolded the stampinghorse, while I knew well he was only upbraiding his own weakness.

  "Come, Ray; come, Darius," said my mother, as she wiped her eyes;"I will show you the new house."

  A man took the horses, and we all followed her into the splendidhall, while I was filled with wonder and a mighty longing for theold home.